I’m hungry

I’m hungry.

The hunger growls at me, like a rabid dog, when I go to bed, when I get up. It growls before the sunrise and forces me to wake up, bending over my stomach, thinking on feasts and endless breakfasts.

I don’t understand how I’m so hungry inside.

Once a month, I drag myself to the dimly lit kitchen, lighting myself only with the old light bulb of the fridge. I realise that it has begun, again, when I eat up the remainders of the cold dinner. With the empty plate, I chew the fleshless bones looking for a little comfort. Finally, I get tired of the taste and I decide that the morning is old enough for having a breakfast of marmalade over toast, over fresh bread, over old bread, over cookies until I end up tasting the lost crumbs.

My co-workers give me some curious looks before greeting me, so I smile with my new fangs. I shake hands, I greet the secretary and I calm them down, “Don’t worry. This will be over tomorrow”. Before slipping away, I steal some cookies from a deserted desk.

I have some candy to survive the morning, but it’s not enough and I end up biting the wrapper paper with a hit of voracity. I’m frustrated. I’m hungry, I look at the watch, I fix my eyes on the computer screen, I’m hungry, it’s cold outside, it’s snowing, I feel like it’s snowing hunger for me. I make myself a coffee, a cappuccino, a tea and a cup of hot chocolate with some milk powder someone forgot inside the cupboard. I drink three glasses of water. When it’s finally midday, I run to the door.

I ask for a burger. If possible, a quadruple burger with triple cheese on it. The cook looks at me with strange face before starting to make me the meal. I discover some bubble-gum on my pocket to entertain me before lunch, and I make a frenetic rhythm with my feet. Step, step, step, my appetite is growing. And I forgot to tell him about the extra tomatoes.

When the food is ready, I devour it. It’s not so much, for my level of voracity. I felt like I wasn’t eating for two, I was eating for three, like I was eating for everyone. I lick the salt off my fingers and I ask for four ice creams. With chocolate, except for the last one, that one is with caramel. The cook keeps on looking at me weirdly, even after paying.

I come back to work with a passing calm, my workmates evade me on the hallways and I end up taking an empty elevator. Once on the desk I get distracted with the files. Every single one of them looks like virtual cookies, and it makes me want to lick the screen. I write ‘I’m hungry’ in the statistics and the graphic bar goes up. Damn this, the hunger is growing again. I hold on.

I eat the skin near the nails, I bite my dry lips, the inner part of my cheeks, I taste my gums and I breathe deeply. I knock the table with my fingers, I write another paragraph of the report, and I stab my shirt with my teeth. It has been two hours and a half, a new record for the day.

I bend over; I fall to the ground, the stomach growling with rage. I think quickly and I remember a pack of cookies forgotten in the deeps of my desk. I eat them two on two and they are enough for moving again, but not for satisfy me. I discreetly ask for a pizza on the phone and then I keep on working. Later, I would have another coffee. I could even take a decaffeinated one.

I eat a bag of chips, followed by a box of cookies and I buy myself a sandwich before getting home. I go the supermarket and I fill my shopping cart. I remember the red numbers on my credit card; I empty the cart a little bit. I didn’t know if I should dinner a full pack of spaghetti or three bowls of rice. With meatballs and tomato sauce, of course. Even with broccoli. I buy broccoli. For my hunger it’s never enough.

The security guard greets me, he may think that all the food must be for donations, and I don’t know how to tell him it’s only the polifagia. I only had to wait until midnight, and I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Once outside, I hide my skin from the cold and I walk home in a hurry.

 

The mechanic bells of the virtual clock mark its midnight, I turn off the television, and I leave the clean and shiny fork over the empty dish. I feel a lot better, I feel really well. I get confortable, I roll up my shirt, and I even stretch myself a little. Then I stretch out suddenly. Pac! I feel how my bones distance. I stretch out to the sides, one more time, Pac! But it’s not enough. I grasp the door frame with one arm and I give the last hit; Pac!

We get up slowy. Whenever we separate ourselves, we fell to the floor, ending up with bruises on arms and back. In pain, I shake hands with my other me, that is about to leave as soon as he arrives. He puts on my coat and my scarf, and tells me to send greetings to mum the next time I see her. I say goodbye in the middle of the night, I don’t know where they go.

I’ll start my diet tomorrow.

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